The Teacher proved to be surprisingly spry for a one-legged man. For almost two days, he’d managed to make good speed on his crutches, all the while pontificating across his shoulder. He truly spoke to the jungle. The kids, still dressed in little more than rags, were now heavily armed. The entire group of tattooed warriors marched silently, in single file. They looked fearsome and they’d had some military training. Their weapons were ancient but in good condition. Perhaps they had stumbled upon a cache from the war. What these tooled-up hippies would do when they reached the prison camp was another matter.
The detective hadn’t seen his own tattoo. There were no mirrors in the cave.
“Don’t worry; the image is not important. It’s the rules you need to follow if the jungle visa is to work,
